


what thrill feels like

by gealbhan



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sports, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Mixed Martial Arts, Sports Violence, bg claude/lorenz, brief mentions of catherine/shamir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-08 03:09:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21469087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gealbhan/pseuds/gealbhan
Summary: “Go easy on me, will you?” asks Hilda, lips puckered. “I’m just a delicate flower.”“No way,” says Leonie. “You’ve made it this far, haven’t you? So you can’t be half-bad.”“Aw, you’re too sweet.” Hilda fans herself. Her helpless expression has dropped in favor of a grin, and when she winks, heat inexplicably fills Leonie’s face. “I just got lucky. But if you insist—”She drops her coat, revealing a set of toned muscles accentuated by her all-black uniform. Leonie’s brain shorts out for a moment.
Relationships: Hilda Valentine Goneril/Leonie Pinelli
Comments: 16
Kudos: 117





	what thrill feels like

**Author's Note:**

> i made a couple of tweets about this and proceeded to be think about it for several hours and then spend the next several days going ham. i know very little about sports -- like 3/5 of what i know about mma is from distant memories of _teppu_ \-- but i do know a lot about buff women, or at least i like to think i do. and i'm making both hilda and leonie train in brawling in my gd save, so here we are!
> 
> title is from the english translation of loona's "heart attack" (hilda stans loona). enjoy!

“Jeralt!” says Leonie, bursting into the back room of his gym, which she technically shouldn’t be allowed into, but the actual members and employees know not to try to stop her. “I have great news.”

Jeralt, also known by his moniker the Fist Breaker, doesn’t even look up. “What is it?”

“Well—look!” Somewhat affronted but not willing to let her bubble be burst, Leonie brandishes the newspaper she’d had tucked under her arm, which advertises—“There’s going to be a big bantamweight tournament in Enbarr next month. See?”

“…And?”

“And _what_?” Leonie lowers the newspaper. “I want to participate in it. Enbarr isn’t that far, and if I want to make it professionally—” _and inherit your title_ goes unspoken “—before I get too old, I’ve gotta start doing more. I’ve been getting rusty.”

“Uh-huh,” says Jeralt. “Why don’t you enter it, then?”

“You’re my coach,” points out Leonie, “so I wanted to check with you beforehand. Is this a good call?”

Jeralt leans forward to take the newspaper from her. He scans it over within several seconds, then hands it back with a shrug. “Seems like a decent opportunity. Go for it.”

Leonie blinks. She’d expected him to argue at least a little. Then again, since he retired from boxing, he’s gotten easier to sway—he’s still got plenty of fight in him, but he prefers not to use it most of the time, saying it’s a relic of a time long since passed (which is to say, less than five years ago). Plus, he’s always been soft under it all; the consequences of having a child who hardly asks for anything, maybe.

“Okay! Thanks, Jeralt.” Leonie turns to leave—then, reconsidering, she pauses and offers the newspaper again. “You can keep this. I’m not gonna read the rest of it.” When Jeralt only raises his eyebrows, she adds with a wave, “I left the funnies in. There’s even one about MMA.”

Jeralt takes the newspaper and returns to his coffee. Leonie, satisfied, leaves with something of a spring in her step.

*

By the time the tournament rolls around, Leonie is more prepared than she thinks she ever has been in her life. When she’d asked Jeralt what changes to make to her training routine in preparation, he’d said warily, “Train enough that you feel good about where you are, but not enough that you break something.”

“Great, thanks,” Leonie had said, translating it to _train as much as possible_.

In truth, Jeralt isn’t the greatest mentor. He’s skilled in practical matters, but as a person, he’s gruff and cynical and drinks too much, however badly Leonie wants to apply the rose-colored glasses she wore when she was fourteen and begged her dad to let her go to an exhibition match in the nearest city because she’d seen Jeralt fighting on TV and thought, _I want to do that_. But he’s also the coach she’s stuck with over the years. She’s still shocked—but relieved—he’d agreed to train her in the first place. (That’s an embarrassing yet touching memory: After the match, she’d waited for him to leave the arena and rushed up to him to ask if he, a professional boxer, would teach her, an at-the-time shrimpy teenage girl, how to fight like him.) He’s a boxer, not an MMA fighter, but he’s skilled enough that it’s never mattered. His teaching style works much better with her independence and ambition than those of others she’s studied under, however briefly.

Above all else, though, he’s become her friend. He’d helped her shave her hair into an undercut when she decided she wanted to take after him in that respect. He’s always treated her as someone as worthy of respect as him. More than anything, he’s always believed in her—which isn’t to say her friends and family from back home hadn’t, but that was to be expected out of them, and not the famous stranger Jeralt had been when he’d begun coaching her.

So to Leonie, he _is_ the best. She understands what he has to say, and she follows his advice to the letter except when she trusts her judgment over his (rare, but often justified). In this case, she agrees with him, so she trains more often. She drags the other members of her gym into so many sparring matches that after some time Jeralt and Byleth, his kid, are the only ones who will train with her anymore. That’s fine—Leonie is more comfortable training with them anyway.

So, while she’s striving to not get too cocky—she knows trash talkers and the like get beat down the worst—she still feels pretty good about her chances.

Over lunch, Byleth agrees, “Confidence is important.”

“Thanks,” says Leonie, grinning. She knows she’s doing good when that’s all Byleth has to say. Though they aren’t very talkative in general, they’re open with their criticisms, which is off-putting to other people but helps Leonie out a considerable amount. “I’m excited! I haven’t been in a real tournament in a while.”

“You’ll do great,” says Byleth.

In lieu of a real response, Leonie reaches out to ruffle their hair, even though they’re older than her. Byleth laughs nonetheless.

*

As expected, Leonie sweeps through the tournament like a hurricane. Byleth and Jeralt cheer her on all the way—Enbarr is too far for her parents to have come in person, but her dad leaves her a voicemail wishing her luck and offering a meaty feast the next time she comes home. It fuels Leonie all the more, and before she knows it, she’s made it to the final round.

Her opponent is Hilda Valentine Goneril. When Jeralt tells Leonie her name, Leonie can’t help but be surprised, because if she’s one of _those _Gonerils (and it’s not a common name, so that’s more likely than not), she must be related to notorious featherweight champion Holst. Instead of a woman with bulging muscles and a hard expression, though, Leonie is faced with one who seems almost waifish. She’s draped in a luxurious fur coat when she first steps into the ring, and when she raises her gloves, it’s almost bashful.

“Go easy on me, will you?” asks Hilda, lips puckered. “I’m just a delicate flower.”

“No way,” says Leonie. She’s not sure what happened along the family tree there, but in the end, it’s none of her business—all she’s here to do is fight Hilda and win. “You’ve made it this far, haven’t you? So you can’t be half-bad.”

“Aw, you’re too sweet.” Hilda fans herself. Her helpless expression has dropped in favor of a grin, and when she winks, heat inexplicably fills Leonie’s face. “I just got lucky. But if you insist—”

She drops her coat, revealing a set of toned muscles accentuated by her all-black uniform. Leonie’s brain shorts out for a moment. When she’s able to think straight, Hilda has raised her fists again; her wrists are limp, but there’s something of a spark in her eyes. Leonie meets her gaze with a grin of her own.

They both turn to warm up and pop their mouth guards in. Leonie bounces on her feet, getting her blood pumping, while the MC introduces them both. Jeralt gives her a thumbs-up from the stands. Across from her, all Hilda does is sway with her hands behind her back, innocent as—indeed—a flower. Unfortunately for her, Leonie has always been a rough-and-tumble person, more likely to trample a bed of daisies than pick and press individual flowers.

The lights go up. Hilda’s teeth flash. Leonie lunges—

*

Leonie loses. Badly.

She puts up a valiant fight in the first couple of rounds, but Hilda is a downright brutal fighter, playing as dirty as she can without committing any actual fouls. She’s _strong_, too—the muscles aren’t just for show. Where Leonie is focused on striking, Hilda is more skilled at grappling; she stays on the defense and gets a vice grip on Leonie whenever possible. More than once, Leonie gets caught in a clinch hold she can’t break out of. She’s never trained with someone who uses so many defensive maneuvers with what seems to be very little physical strain. Hilda fights like it’s a game that she’s already won.

By the end of the match, Leonie is struggling to even stay on her feet. She refuses to tap, though, gritting her teeth and not admitting defeat until the unanimous decision that Hilda is the victor.

Hilda squeals at the ruling. The crowd chants along with her: _“Hilda! Hilda!”_

It’s a deafening roar, and it only serves to reinforce Leonie’s defeat. She feels like she’s been dragged through a meat grinder, and her pain must show on her face when she steps forth to bump her glove against Hilda’s in a silent show of sportsmanship.

Hilda clasps her free hand over her mouth in faux surprise. “Oh, did I hurt you? I’m sorry! I just don’t know my own strength, I guess.” She giggles, then groans, daubing her hand across her forehead instead. “Ugh, now I’m all sweaty and gross! Putting in work is so _hard_.” Her glove falls away from Leonie’s. “Towel, pretty please—”

Leonie’s vision goes red. Who even _is_ this girl? Waltzing in like it’s no big deal to handily trounce the first and best (and only unless one counts Byleth, who hadn’t gone into martial arts) apprentice of Jeralt the Fist Breaker and then complaining about putting in work—what a frustrating person.

But… it also makes her interesting. Afterward, once Jeralt has offered what comfort he can (which consists mainly of him telling her, “Chin up—you’re not going to be the second Fist Breaker with an expression like that”), Leonie mulls over the way she’d fought. It’s much different from Leonie’s own, which is influenced more by boxing than anything else. She wonders what sort of background Hilda has in MMA. If she’s related to Holst Goneril, as her name and hair color suggest, then she might have wrestled like him—the way she’d used her hands suggests she’d at least dabbled.

When she’s no longer irritated at her attitude, Leonie will have to study up on Hilda’s upbringing and techniques, maybe even find some recorded matches. They might end up fighting each other in the future, after all. Even if they don’t, it would be useful for Leonie to adopt some new skills—an MMA fighter has to be trained in both grappling and striking, after all, and she’s lacking in the former.

But for now? Whatever. She wants nothing to do with Hilda Valentine Goneril beyond sportsmanly touching gloves and calling out a “Good match” that goes ignored as Hilda towels herself off.

*

Crushing as the defeat is, it only serves to harden Leonie’s reserve. Once she’s recovered physically—Manuela Casagranda, a physician who Leonie has worked with before and knows is tough but fair, gives her the all-clear—she gets right back to training as hard as she had been beforehand.

When she steps into the gym for the first time, Raphael rushes right up to her, asking, “Are you doing all right? I saw your match with Hilda, and—”

“I’m good now,” says Leonie, holding up a hand. She doesn’t know much about Raphael—she’s hypothesized that he’s a wrestler of some kind, but she doesn’t know anything about his everyday life except that he has a younger sister who also comes to the fitness center because he tried to set Leonie up with her once—but she does know that he’s a good guy. “Thanks for asking. Hey, wanna spar? I just warmed up, so I’m sorta raring to go.”

Though a bit hesitant, Raphael accepts. Leonie doesn’t quite manage to beat him, but they call it a draw and shake on it—it’s a refreshing return to her training, being a good bout of exercise without being too taxing.

Leonie spends the next couple of weeks readjusting to more frequent training. She avoids the locker room as a rule, always already dressed in workout-friendly clothes and willing to stuff her bag into a corner while she’s working out, so it takes her some time to pop in again. Almost at once, she regrets it—as soon as she opens her locker, someone speaks behind her.

“Oh, what? You go to this gym, too?”

The voice is familiar in a way that makes Leonie’s shoulders tense. She turns to find Hilda Valentine Goneril, bubblegum-pink hair in a single high ponytail rather than the two she’d worn for their match, looking back at her with what appears to be genuine shock. Leonie can’t tell if it really is—either way, she frowns.

“I do,” she says, shuffling her feet. “Have for a few years now. Jeralt recommended it to me.”

“Right, Jeralt,” says Hilda, insipid. The surprise has already worn off, it seems. “The _Fist Breaker._” And then she has the gall to laugh—a high giggle, like Jeralt’s title is a joke of some sort.

Leonie squares her jaw. “I don’t know what your problem with me is, but—”

“There’s no problem.” Hilda flings her wrists up in defense. “At least, not on my end. But _you_ seem to have a problem with _me_.” She regards Leonie with a tilted head and a manicured finger tapping against her chin. The nails—as pink as her hair—must be fake, because Leonie can’t see them being anything but bothersome in a real fight. “We both have to use this gym, and we’re not the only ones, so let’s not be petty, okay?”

“I’m—” Leonie realizes her voice is too loud and lowers it. “I’m not being petty. You’re the one being snippy about my coach.”

“I didn’t say anything snippy about the Fist Breaker.”

Jeralt’s title has always sounded—to borrow a term her fourteen-year-old self might have used—awesome to Leonie, but it just sounds _wrong_ in Hilda’s mouth. “You were going to, though.”

“You can’t prove that, can you?”

Leonie opens her mouth, ready to hotly respond—then she shuts it when she realizes she can’t. She fixes a point on the wall behind Hilda’s head with a glare. Maybe if she projects hard enough, Hilda will leave.

“Thought so,” says Hilda with a simper. She folds her hands at her waist. “Like I said, there’s no problem here unless you have one. We all have to share this gym—let’s try to get along and respect each other’s differences.”

“Right.” Leonie shoves her bag into her locker and closes the door with just short of a slam. Only sparing Hilda another glance and a curt nod, she turns to leave—

But just before she can go, Hilda clears her throat. “For what it’s worth,” she says to Leonie’s back, even more unreadable without her face to at least guess off of, “I _wasn’t _going to say anything snippy about Jeralt. He’s a good fighter—you definitely learned it from him.”

Leonie gets the distinct impression she’s being mocked, so she walks away without another word.

*

For the next several weeks, Leonie and Hilda avoid one another. (Or rather, Leonie avoids Hilda—if she sees Hilda, she’ll ignore her presence as best she can. If Hilda sees her, as happens one day when Leonie passes the weight training area when Hilda is working out with Caspar, she’ll wave like they’re friends. Leonie will wave back, unnerved, and continue on at a quicker pace.)

It’s harder than it seems; they haven’t bumped into each other all this time, or maybe just didn’t know their faces before, but now it seems impossible to turn a corner without spotting Hilda. But Leonie does manage to avoid getting into another real conversation with Hilda, so to her, so far so good. Even if it means she starts spending less overall time at the gym for fear of being unable to escape Hilda.

One night, Leonie snaps and stays overtime at the gym, going at a punching bag like it’s another person and there are no off-limit moves. She’s taped her hands a few times over. She’s already growing sore, and she winces in apprehension for how she’ll feel over the next couple of days.

The overhead lights flicker, making her feel like the protagonist of an indie flick with bad cinematography as she attacks. Her lungs heave and her heart pulses with each kick, punch, and shove she delivers. Whenever she loses her balance, her hands scrabble desperately at the punching bag to hold herself upright. She has to stay on her feet, has to keep moving, has to keep training.

If Jeralt were here, he’d tell her to give it a rest. But, Leonie thinks with rare petulance, he isn’t. And as long as there’s no one else here to stop her, most of the other regulars having already gone home, Leonie is free to do this until she either cries or passes out, and she isn’t sure which she would hate more.

She has no idea how long she’s been practicing when footsteps sound behind her, followed by a too-familiar voice: “Leonie? How long have you been here?”

Leonie swallows back a curse. Of course it had to be Hilda.

She doesn’t justify Hilda with a response, only pausing for an instant before she punches the bag again. It swings halfway to the wall. A good and clean strike—but lacking in _oomph_. Leonie gnashes her teeth and bounces back and forth on her feet. She manages to get control of her breath long enough to ask, “What are you—” punch “—doing—” kick “—here?”

“I left my phone here earlier. Came back to get it and saw the lights still on.” Hilda is quiet for a moment, then she says again, “How long have you been here?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care. I’ll leave soon.”

Hilda is the one who doesn’t reply this time, and for a second, Leonie thinks she’s taken the hint and left. Guarding her face with tight fists, Leonie kicks out again—but there’s no bag to await her kick, since it’s already swung out, propelled by a jab from the other side.

“_Shit—”_

Despite everything she knows about balance, all of Leonie’s practical knowledge just vanishes. Her grounded foot slips out from beneath her as she pushes all of her weight forward in overcompensation. Embarrassingly enough, she falls right on her ass. She lets loose another string of swears and lifts her head—

Hilda is standing above her, an almost pitying look in her eyes as she steadies the punching bag. Moonlight streams in from the window behind her and illuminates her form. She’s not a tall person by any means, but she casts Leonie in what seems to be a beast-sized shadow nonetheless, perspective turning her into a towering mass.

“Sorry, are you okay?” she asks, much more genuine than the teasing request at the end of their match. “I didn’t mean to trip you up. I just wanted to you stop before you—” she smiles, wry “—hurt yourself. Though that’s moot now, I guess.”

“Fuck off,” says Leonie through her teeth. She’s not even angry, she realizes—something other than fury is boiling within her, brutal in the same way but not as hot and sharp, gutting her in an entirely different way.

“Oh, so you can’t be that bad off, then.” Hilda lets go of the punching bag. “Well, since you’re clearly doing all right, I’ll see you later. Hope your ass feels better. Ciao.”

And she turns on her heel (literal heel, Leonie realizes with dismay, because Hilda is the type of person who wears six-inch heels to the gym and actually works out in them), pink hair swishing behind her. But Leonie—

Leonie can’t leave it at that. For whatever reason—pettiness, pride, perfectionism, none of the above—she can’t. She bites her cheek, holding herself back for only a moment before she hears herself calling out, half-choked, “Wait.”

Hilda waits.

“How did you do it?” asks Leonie after another beat of pointlessly wrestling with herself, voice now even and calm.

“Do what?” says Hilda, looking over her shoulder.

“Win.”

Silence stretches out again, fraught and crackling with tension. Hilda turns to face Leonie head-on, head cocked to the side—waiting for elaboration, Leonie thinks, even though Hilda _knows_ what Leonie is talking about.

“I just don’t get it.” Leonie slumps forward, clutching her head. “I’ve been working so hard for years and you—you don’t even try.”

“Nope,” agrees Hilda, popping the ‘p.’

Leonie’s hands curl back into fists. Were they not wrapped and her nails not blunt, she would be carving crescent shapes into her palms. “Why?”

“Hm? Why what?”

“Why—” _Why are you so strong? Why are you better than me? Why am I still thinking about you?_ All of these questions run through Leonie’s head, as rushed as the blood flowing through her veins, but in the end, what she says is, “Why don’t you try?”

Hilda blinks back at her. Leonie gets the impression she’s startled Hilda as much as she has herself. With a _thump_, Hilda drops onto the ground beside Leonie, sinking like a deflated balloon. Neither speaks, lost in thought—Leonie tries to get her breathing and heart rate back under control without moving to do any real cool-downs, even though she knows she should.

“Holst Goneril is my brother,” says Hilda finally. Leonie’s eyes widen, but Hilda is still talking. “All of my life, I’ve just had to hear about how great and cool and tough and perfect and _better_ he is. And I love him, really, but—it gets old living under someone’s legacy, you know?”

Leonie thinks about how someday she wants to inherit Jeralt’s title—be the second Fist Breaker, go down in history as the first and best apprentice of Jeralt Eisner. She thinks about how reporters always talk about Jeralt’s achievements before hers. She thinks about how many times she’s been told she’ll have to work a lot harder if she wants to live up to him, even though she already tries her best day after day.

More than anything else, she thinks about how, when she first heard Hilda’s name, her first thought was to compare her to Holst.

“Yeah,” says Leonie, pressing her legs against her chest. “I know.”

Hilda smiles. Up this close, Leonie notices that she has dimples. The smile doesn’t falter even when Hilda’s gaze lowers, eyebrows drawing inward. “Since Holst was so perfect, I figured there was no way I could do any better. Every time I win anything, my parents just bring up how much more Holst has. I don’t think they realize they’re doing it—it’s just a fact: Holst is the perfect child, and I’m just his lazy, bitchy baby sister.” She shrugs. “MMA is fun and all, though it’s a lot of work, but it’ll never be my career like it is Holst’s. And I don’t want it to be.”

“Why not? You’re good at it.” That only makes Hilda’s face shutter, and Leonie looks down in embarrassment. “Sorry. Um—what do you really want to do?”

“Make accessories,” says Hilda at once.

“Accessories?”

“Yeah! Like, necklaces and charms and stuff.” Hilda’s smile comes back in full force. “Right now, I just have an Etsy store that I sell new jewelry on every now and then, but I want to open an actual shop someday. I love making cute, fancy things like this—” she taps her neck, around which a gold necklace with a cherry-shaped pendant is hanging “—and I’m pretty good at it, honestly, but I don’t have time to do it full-time yet.”

Leonie doesn’t really understand the point of jewelry. Her ears are pierced, but she only wears earrings once in a while to keep the holes from closing up. Other jewelry is pointless in a fight. As far as she knows, most of it is just to look pretty, which Leonie doesn’t get—what’s the point of something beautiful if it doesn’t serve a purpose, even if that purpose is sentimentality?

But she can see that it’s important to Hilda, so she nods at Hilda’s necklace and says, “That does look really nice. If all of your jewelry looks that pretty, I’m sure your store would be a big hit.”

Hilda laughs, warm. “You’re a sweetheart,” she coos, making Leonie’s ears flush. “Maybe I could make something for you one of these days.”

“Oh—I don’t really go in for that sort of thing.” Leonie rubs the back of her neck, thumbing over the shaved portion of her hair. “To you, it might be important, but to me, most of it feels… unnecessary. I only really wear things that are practical or mean something. Everything else is just fancy decoration.”

“To each their own.” Hilda shrugs, but she’s still smiling. “If you change your mind, let me know, okay? I’d be happy to give you some of my old stuff for free.”

“I probably won’t, but thanks.”

A moment of peaceful silence passes before Hilda, picking absently at her bright red nail polish, says, “Feeling any better?”

“I still hurt.”

“Oh, I figured. I meant more emotionally.”

“Ah.” Leonie considers that, then admits, “I think so. I still don’t understand you, but I have a lot more respect for you now.”

“It’d suck if you _did_ understand me,” Hilda tells her. “I specialize in being a mystery to everybody around me.” She flutters her eyelashes and cracks a grin when Leonie laughs, half-amused and half-flustered. “But thanks. I respect you too, you know? You’re pretty blunt and impulsive and competitive, but you put so much effort into everything—totally weird, but kinda cool.”

Against her own will, Leonie blushes. She scratches her neck. “Thanks, Hilda. Hey—while we’re here, would you mind teaching me some clinch holds?” she asks, in part to detract from her flush, even though she doubts Hilda can see it in the shitty lighting. “Jeralt isn’t really defense-oriented, so he’s never taught me anything but the basics.”

Hilda’s face twists. “Well, if there’s no one else who can help you—”

Leonie laughs, a bark of sound that makes Hilda jump. “You’re not getting out of this one now that I know you can do it. So c’mon,” she says, getting to her feet and raising her tired fists, “let’s spar!”

“Oh boy,” mumbles Hilda, but she goes to fetch a pair of gloves anyway.

*

From then on out, Hilda and Leonie settle into a more companionable relationship—they’re friends now, Leonie thinks. They train together whenever possible; while Hilda isn’t into learning new techniques unless she has to, she’s great at helping Leonie with grappling maneuvers. Once she drops the facade, she’s also easy to get along with.

Even if she makes Leonie listen to foreign pop when they train together. One day, Leonie gets up the nerve to ask, “Do you even understand this?”

“Do _you_ understand what all those old rock singers are saying half the time?” returns Hilda, because it’s no secret that Leonie has inherited her taste in music from Jeralt. When Leonie can’t answer, Hilda snorts. “That’s what I thought. Anyway, wanna see a cool trick I learned from my brother?”

Hilda also talks about Holst a lot, given the inferiority complex between them, but Leonie figures she’s not one to judge—her relationship with Byleth, who’s the closest thing to a sibling she has, is complicated too. She’s coldcocked them before (not on purpose, and she’d apologized profusely, but still), and she’s still somewhat begrudging about how close they are with Jeralt, however ridiculous it is. Leonie finds herself opening up to this between sparring matches. It makes her feel selfish, responding to Hilda with personal anecdotes, but Hilda seems interested and doesn’t stop sharing her own stories.

Soon, they start spending time together away from the gym. Leonie turns down Hilda’s first offers to go shopping, but when it becomes clear Hilda only wants to go to a sporting goods store, she accepts. They walk and talk when they see each other in public instead of exchanging stiff smiles and moving on like civilized strangers.

They also exchange phone numbers at Hilda’s insistence. (After practicing together, she all but shoves her phone into Leonie’s hand, chirping, “Hey, what’s your number?” Though unnerved, Leonie adds her number and gets a text as soon as Hilda leaves.) Leonie grows used to Hilda wishing her good mornings followed by rows of emoji. Leonie hadn’t even known there were that many—she tends to text only her parents and Jeralt, none of whom seem to know emoji are even a thing.

Hilda even gifts her with a bracelet—not too flashy, just a simple band of interlocking strings. “You don’t have to wear it,” she assures Leonie. “I just thought it would be fun to make something more your style, and then it felt wrong to sell it when I made it with you in mind, so—”

Leonie, who’s already putting it on, won’t hear any of it. “It means something, so I will. Thank you.”

“Oh? And what does it mean?”

“You gave it to me, so it’s special,” says Leonie, simple as that, and Hilda grins and squeezes her hands with delight.

Ferdinand notices it while he and Leonie are fencing together, and he’s quick to point out the hair tie, decorated with plastic stars, he had bought from Hilda months ago. “She is quite the skilled craftswoman, is she not? Rather lazy, though.”

“Oh, she’s not that bad.”

“My,” says Ferdinand, eyebrows raised, “that is quite the change from three weeks ago, when you were complaining about her so much that we did not even properly spar.”

“We’re friends now, I guess.”

“Indeed?” Ferdinand seems rather pleased at that—Leonie can’t even begin to guess at why. She has friends. “Well then. Perhaps you ought to tell me more about this friend of yours after this,” he says, and then jabs, winning the match while she’s caught off-guard.

After one training session, Hilda even asks, “Wanna go get lunch?” like that’s a thing they do.

Leonie accepts like it’s second nature. It seems so; she’s spent so much time with Hilda that having a meal with her is as casual as anything else, and she needs to recharge after training with Hilda, so she would have eaten on her own anyway.

After lunch (which is great—Hilda takes Leonie to a ritzy place and doesn’t even make her pay for her half, though Leonie tries to argue otherwise until she sees the check), Hilda leans up on her toes to press her lips against Leonie’s cheek. Leonie’s jaw goes slack with surprise, and she stands still as Hilda kisses her. Her skin tingles when Hilda pulls back.

Hilda hides a giggle at, presumably, Leonie’s expression. “This was fun,” she says, and Leonie musters up the strength to nod. “See you later!”

She darts off, too fast for Leonie to call after her and ask what that had been about. Leonie stands there for a while, numb and blinking, thinking only about Hilda kissing her cheek. Uncaring of the fact that she’s in public, Leonie reaches up to brush her fingers against the spot where Hilda’s lips had been.

Her fingers come away pink with lipstick. Leonie flushes even further at that, but she doesn’t dare wipe the lipstick away.

She realizes how fast her heart is pounding, how tightly-wound the knot in her stomach is, how she feels like she’s walking on air but also like she’s about to puke. Leonie frowns, wondering if the meat she’d had for lunch had turned on her. A general feeling of malaise _is_ overtaking her, but it doesn’t feel like she’s floating in a food poisoning way—rather, it feels good.

And she’s felt it a lot around Hilda.

“_Oh,”_ says Leonie. Then she buries her head in her hands with a groan.

This isn’t the first crush she’s had, far from it, but it may be the most embarrassing (yes, including the period of Leonie’s adolescence when she’d pinned several pictures of Judith von Daphnel to the walls of her room). It’s already puzzling enough that she’s managed to become friends with Hilda, who beat her months ago and whose personality is drastically different from Leonie’s. Of course Leonie had to complicate things by catching feelings for her.

Leonie rubs her face, takes a deep breath, and marches off like nothing had happened. She’ll deal with this later.

*

After that, nothing changes aside from Leonie’s improved self-awareness.

Hilda and Leonie still train together and apart. Hilda doesn’t enter any other tournaments as far as Leonie knows—though this could also be because there aren’t any, which Leonie knows because she’s also been keeping an eye out. They’re still friends, and they still talk almost as often as Leonie does with Jeralt and Byleth.

The only tangible difference is that Hilda is more tactile. She hugs Leonie and sometimes kisses her cheek again when they part; she uses more physical contact than is necessary when she’s teaching Leonie new moves; she takes Leonie’s hand when they walk together. That last one never fails to take Leonie by surprise. Hilda’s hands are rough, and it’s startling how easily she lets Leonie know that when she puts on such a show of delicacy and frailty. It’s not comparable to everything else, but Hilda also includes more and more heart emoji in her texts.

Of course, this all sets Leonie’s heart aflame. She could ask Hilda about it, but that would lead to admitting her own feelings, which she’s not ready to do yet. She will be before long, she’s sure—but for now, she’s not sure what to do, so she’s fine with keeping it all under wraps for now.

Other gym-goers seem to notice, though. Felix raises his eyebrows when Hilda hugs Leonie goodbye. He’s soon too busy yelling across the room at Sylvain for slacking on his training in favor of flirting with a newcomer—Jeritza’s sister, Leonie realizes with a grimace and prayer for Sylvain’s life (it doesn’t matter to her on a personal level, but he’s a decent training partner)—for Leonie to interrogate him over it.

Another time, Hilda and Leonie walk into the gym holding hands, and Raphael, who’s lifting weights with Caspar, slugs Leonie’s shoulder once Hilda has left. It bewilders Leonie even when he winks for heavy-handed emphasis.

“What?” she asks. “Do you want to train together?”

“Maybe later,” says Raphael, distracted, then he shakes his head. “But I just wanted to congratulate you and Hilda! I didn’t see it before, but now I definitely do. Good for you, Leonie.”

Leonie continues frowning. “What?”

“You and Hilda are together now, right?” Raphael’s ear-to-ear beam falters at Leonie’s continued bemusement. “You aren’t? But you were holding hands.”

Leonie, sputtering, is hit with the need to go take a shower even though she despises the locker room showers, which are unsanitary and too public for her liking. She hurries to the lockers before remembering this and walking right back out. The next day, Raphael hands her a croissant in unspoken apology.

Days later, Leonie is practicing with Shamir at the indoor archery range. Leonie took archery lessons before going into MMA, and Shamir is an archer by trade, so it’s a good opportunity for them both, and they get along well enough. They’ve said very little for the past half hour when Shamir suddenly speaks up: “So, are you and the Goneril girl dating yet?”

Leonie misses the bullseye by a wide margin. She swears, then asks, “Sorry?”

“I mean, it’s none of my business, but Catherine wanted to know.” Catherine is a fellow regular and former boxing champion who now coaches high schoolers. She and Shamir are together, Leonie is pretty sure, not least because she’s heard them call each other partner, but she still isn’t sure, and neither of them is telling. “I can tell her it’s none of her business either.”

“Um. That’s fine,” says Leonie, if only because Catherine could probably deadlift her. “No, we aren’t dating. You’re not the first person to assume that, though.” Leonie reaches for another arrow before realizing her hands are shaking too much to shoot again without harming herself or others. “Shit. I’m out of practice.”

Shamir raises her eyebrows as she nocks an arrow. “No kidding. Need me to draw a spider to help you aim?”

“Ugh.” Leonie has vivid recollections of Shamir’s far-too-detailed illustrations of spiders and insects. Her entire body shudders at just the thought. “Thanks, but I’m good,” she says in a way that makes it sound equivalent to _fuck you_.

Shamir huffs out a laugh. Leonie inhales, steadying her breath, and aims again.

They continue practicing in relative silence. Leonie manages to get a few arrows within a decent distance of the center, though every time she thinks about Hilda, her hand shakes again. Shamir, of course, splits a couple of arrows down the middle like it’s nothing. Leonie promises she’ll be able to do that at least once next time—Shamir outright snorts, which Leonie brushes off with an eyeroll.

As they’re walking out, after a quick goodbye to Bernadetta—Leonie hadn’t even noticed she was there too, but Shamir apparently had—a call of, “Leonie!” sounds. Before Leonie can so much as turn, Hilda jogs up to them, grinning up at Leonie and not even glancing in Shamir’s direction.

“Good,” she says, not out of breath despite running, “I was looking for you.”

Leonie’s eyes dart to Shamir, who says nothing to help Leonie out here, before clearing her throat and fixing all of her attention on Hilda again. “You were? Why?”

“Well, I’m fighting in an exhibition match for some charity in a couple of weeks,” says Hilda, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “And I wanted to see if you wanted to come. It’s all the way out in Deirdru, but I got some free tickets—you’ll have the best view in the house!”

Leonie blinks. “Oh, wow, that sounds really cool,” she says, though she can’t help but wonder why Hilda would agree to such a thing. “When exactly is it?”

“I have an extra schedule right here! Here—” Hilda unzips her gym bag, pulls out a poster advertising the match and a ticket, and hands everything over to Leonie, who struggles to hold it all. Leonie doesn’t recognize the name of Hilda’s opponent, but she does know she’ll be free on the date in question. “I hope you can come! If so, I’ll see you there.”

Just as fast as she’d arrived, Hilda skips off again. Shamir stares, impassive but clearly judgmental in some way, at Leonie. Leonie looks at the ticket and poster in her hands.

“I—this doesn’t mean anything, right?” she wonders. “It’s probably a friend thing, right?”

“Don’t ask me,” says Shamir. “Ask her.”

Leonie doesn’t justify that with a response. She clutches the poster and ticket to her chest and turns on her heel—she doesn’t _flee_, she’ll insist later under duress (not really, because she knows Shamir doesn’t give a shit), but she will admit to taking off at a brisk pace.

*

Later that night, Leonie resorts to texting Jeralt at around midnight, plagued by thoughts of Hilda’s offer: **what does it mean when someone asks you to come to her exhibition match and gives you tickets to it? asking for a friend**.

His response doesn’t come until early in the morning. **Is this about that Hilda girl Byleth told me about?** is the first message, followed shortly by, **Can’t say for certain. Good luck.**

**thanks,** Leonie texts back after yelling into her pillow. **that doesn’t help even a little.**

**No problem,** replies Jeralt.

*

Leonie goes to the match. How could she not, after all of this?

She gets to the arena right before Hilda’s match starts, though not early enough that she can talk to Hilda. Around her, the crowd is buzzing—Leonie guesses the fighter Hilda is up against is pretty big here, and though Hilda isn’t _not_ famous, being a Goneril, she’s something of an underdog here. It only makes Leonie more confident of Hilda’s chances.

The seat is, as promised, one of the best. There are even a few empty seats around Leonie, something she isn’t used to—even in tournaments she’s participated in, she’s used to being crammed between other people. From here, she gets a clear view of the cage. Still, she leans forward in anticipation when Hilda steps out in her uniform.

Though she isn’t donning a fur coat this time, the way she carries herself is as performatively delicate as it had been when she’d fought Leonie. It offputs the crowd even further. All around her, Leonie hears the sentiment she once shared: _Who does this Hilda Valentine Goneril think she is?_

Leonie grins. Seeing that attitude when she’s on Hilda’s side is exhilarating.

The match begins, and right off the bat, Hilda is on the defensive. She circles her opponent and plays off of them. Despite being more seasoned, Hilda’s opponent is rasher than Leonie expects, growing frustrated and charging when Hilda doesn’t—but of course, Hilda is ready with a counter.

The first round goes without a decisive winner. The second round will go, Leonie suspects, to Hilda; she manages to pin her opponent within two minutes and is grinning when they part at the ring of the bell. The third and fourth round are a haphazard back-and-forth revolving around Hilda’s grapples and her opponent’s strikes—they, too, are rather close, but Hilda’s opponent seems to be wearing herself off while Hilda is still barely even panting.

Midway through the fifth round, which could go either way but seems headed in Hilda’s favor, Leonie is joined in the stands by a pair of unfamiliar men with their hands entangled at their sides, bickering all the while. Leonie watches out of the corner of her eye as they take the seats beside her. Their half-hearted arguing falters when they notice her.

“Ah! Hello, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” says one, who has long purple hair and a golden rose pinned to his lapel. He offers the hand that isn’t intertwined with his companion’s. “Lorenz Hellman Gloucester. And you are?”

Leonie’s eyes dart between the man—Lorenz, whose surname rings some distant bells—and the match, where Hilda has her opponent caught in a rear naked choke. She shakes Lorenz’s hand. “I’m Leonie. You’re here to see Hilda?”

“Sure thing,” says the other man, who’s wearing a matching red rose and a pleasant smile. It widens when he glances over Leonie; she’s terrible at reading strangers in particular, but she’s been sized up countless times, though it’s in the ring more often than not. “I’m Claude. Hilda’s best friend. She mentioned that she invited you today, but she wasn’t sure if you would show up.”

“Well, I did,” says Leonie, somewhat defensive.

“You did, indeed.” Claude and Lorenz exchange a quick look, but then he turns back to Leonie to ask, “How’s the match been going so far?”

Leonie can’t believe this is even a question, let alone from Hilda’s alleged best friend. “Hilda is winning the hell out of it, obviously.”

Claude laughs. “Of course. Sorry for the dumb question—I had to make sure you were decent.” He leans forward. “You know, Hilda has been telling me all about you—”

Before he can say more, the bell rings to announce Hilda’s victory, and Hilda chants her own name as the crowd erupts into cheers. Claude and Lorenz both get to their feet to join in. Leonie settles for a reserved _whoop!_ that makes Hilda glance her way—or she assumes so; even from this close, it’s difficult to tell where Hilda’s exact focus is—and beam.

The crowd settles and files out before long. Hilda bounds over to them, towel slung over her shoulders, and grabs Claude in a hug that he returns in full force. Each seems to be trying to do their best to break the other with their own strength—Leonie can’t tell who wins, because Hilda is, of course, very ripped, but Claude is pretty muscular himself. Once they break apart, both laughing, Hilda turns to Lorenz. He gives her a dignified pat on the shoulder.

“Sorry we were late,” he tells her. “All Claude’s fault, of course.”

“Sure, sure,” says Hilda while Claude shakes his head goodnaturedly. Leonie feels out of the loop but not too bothered by it, content to watch—and then Hilda whirls to face her, eyes going wide and face splitting into a grin. “Leonie! You came!”

“Of course—how could I miss it?” Leonie, grinning back, clears her throat. Hilda isn’t moving to sweep her up in a hug, so Leonie isn’t sure what to do—she doesn’t move on her own, instead just saying, quiet but earnest, “You were incredible. That underhook at the beginning was one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen.”

“Aw, shucks.” Hilda’s smile softens. “Well, thanks. I actually had a lot of fun up there—now, I guess I know it’s because you were watching!”

Leonie lowers her head with a laugh. “I’m sure that’s not it—”

“Say, Leonie,” interrupts Claude, and Leonie turns to him. “Hilda, Lorenz, and I were planning on going out to eat after this. You wanna come with?”

“Oh—” Leonie’s stomach pangs at the thought of eating—the popcorn here had been way too overpriced—but she hesitates. “Well, I wouldn’t want to intrude—”

“You wouldn’t be,” Hilda jumps in to say. “I’d love to have you there, actually.”

Leonie glances at Lorenz, who only smiles in encouragement. “Then yeah, that sounds great. I took the bus here, so getting back should be fine,” she adds. “Where are we eating?”

*

As it turns out, they’re eating at an ordinary diner called Edmund’s. It wouldn’t have stood out to Leonie, but it seems Hilda, Claude, and Lorenz all have fond memories of it, and the food is great. Leonie gets seconds, though only after Claude—who’d magnanimously offered to pay, earning him another squealing hug from Hilda (which in turn had prompted Leonie to tell herself, _See, that’s not a weird thing for friends to do_)—all but commands her to.

The other three carry on most of the conversation, but Leonie finds it in her to contribute every now and then. She and Hilda are sat next to each other, so Hilda elbows her in the side whenever Hilda wants her to say something. Across the booth, Claude and Lorenz—more so Claude—snicker at this.

After a while, there’s a lull in conversation, and it clicks in Leonie’s mind where she’s heard Lorenz’s name. She drops her fork with a start. “You’re the son of that big-name MMA agent,” she says, realizing too late that it sounds too accusatory and trying to school her features into something non-intimidating.

Claude and Hilda exchange looks. Lorenz looks as though he’s swallowed a lemon.

“Ah… indeed, I am. However, my father,” he says, stiff but prim, “is no longer associated with me.”

Hilda snorts, drawing several other diners’ attention to their table. “Oh, c’mon, Lorenz. ‘No longer associated’?” She rolls her eyes and casts Leonie a _can you believe this shit_ look. Leonie raises an eyebrow. “Just say your father is a slimy, righteous douchebag who deserves to be six feet under.”

“_Hilda,”_ scolds Claude, but he’s grinning behind his palm.

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.” Lorenz pauses to steeple his fingers together. “I concede to the ‘douchebag’ part, though. That’s very true.”

Claude and Hilda cackle and high-five across the table. Leonie, on the other hand, says, “Sorry for bringing it up, then. I just realized, so—”

“Oh, it’s quite all right,” says Lorenz, waving his hand. “We cut each other off ages ago. It’s nothing more than a bother to talk about nowadays.”

With a noncommittal hum, Leonie returns to slicing up her steak. “My coach used to complain about him all the time, for what it’s worth,” she says around another mouthful. Lorenz had reproachfully commented on her table manners when they’d started, but he doesn’t even react now. “Hated his guts.”

“Your coach—” Claude taps his cheek. “That’d be Jeralt Reus Eisner, yeah? Hilda told me about you a while back, so I looked you up—there were a lot of articles about him coaching you.”

“Yeah,” says Leonie, head lifting. Her interest had already been piqued by the mention of Jeralt, but the notion that Hilda has talked about her only further intrigues her. “You’ve heard of him?”

Lorenz scoffs. “Who hasn’t?”

“I guess that’s true.” Even though Leonie and Jeralt had met because of his status, it’s still weird to think sometimes that he’s a nationally recognized athlete. “When we first met—well, met for the second time, but for the first time outside of the ring—even Hilda made some comments about him.”

“Hey! I explicitly told you I wasn’t making comments.” Hilda puffs out her cheeks, indignant, but when their eyes meet, they both laugh.

“Aw,” says Claude. Leonie shoots him a somewhat mystified look, at which he only smiles, raises his finger to his lips, and moves onto another subject—a mutual friend named Marianne, whom Hilda insists Leonie _has_ to meet, a sentiment that’s soon echoed by Claude and Lorenz.

“She’s shy and pretty clumsy, even though she doesn’t seem like she would be, but she really likes horses,” offers Hilda. “Oh! And we should introduce you to Lysithea and Ignatz too, and—”

The conversation continues on, though Leonie refuses a third helping, and Claude follows up on his promise to pay. Afterward, as they stand outside in the brisk air, Hilda threads her fingers through Leonie’s where their hands rest at their sides. Leonie coughs into her free hand.

“Well, it’s been nice meeting you, Leonie,” says Claude, glancing between her and Hilda. His smile has slipped slightly, but it’s still intact and kind. “We’ll have to do this again sometime, yeah?”

Leonie can’t think of many occasions for them to go through this exact scenario, but she guesses it’s a figure of speech. “For sure. It’s been nice talking to you two too.”

“I have to say, I didn’t think I would like double dates much,” says Hilda, and a puzzle begins assembling itself at the back of Leonie’s mind, “but this _has_ been super fun.”

“Double dates?” echoes Leonie.

“Well, yeah! Claude and Lorenz are a couple, and we’re dating too, aren’t we?” says Hilda, nudging Leonie in the side. She must see something in Leonie’s face, because, with widening eyes, she steps back. Her hand falls from Leonie’s as she repeats, “Aren’t we?”

“What,” Leonie manages to say, feeling like all of the air has been punched out of her.

“Oh dear.” Grimacing, Claude links his arm with Lorenz’s and steers them away with a call of, “Well, we’ll just be over here! Holler if you need us!”

The two speedwalk away, muttering under their breaths, but all of Leonie’s attention is fixated on Hilda. Hilda, who’s staring back at her like she’s from another planet. Hilda, who had thought the two of them were—were—

“I asked you out a while ago,” says Hilda. “When we got lunch that time after we trained together, remember? I meant for it to be a date, so I assumed we were together now, but—” She looks away. “I guess I was wrong.”

“What?” says Leonie again. Her brain is shorting out, thoughts discombobulated. “I didn’t—you never _said_.”

“I thought it was obvious!”

“I—fuck.” Leonie thinks about her recent experiences with Hilda, things she’d dismissed as odd but not overall disagreeable and therefore not worth mentioning. The cheek kisses, the tight and frequent embraces, the hand-holding, the look on Hilda’s face when she had offered Leonie tickets to her match, the general physical closeness Hilda had kept on instigating—

Oh. None of that had been very subtle, had it?

Leonie, eyes wide and mouth parted in realization, looks at Hilda. Hilda is biting her lip, looking like she’s about to cry, which is such a weird—and wrong, if only because it’s _real_—expression to see on Hilda that Leonie recoils on instinct.

“Well, I’m sorry,” says Hilda. “For making you uncomfortable and for making assumptions. I’ll just—be going now—”

She turns to do just that. Once again, Leonie finds herself to call out to her, unable to stand watching her walk away, but knowing why this time—

“Wait!” says Leonie, so loud that it makes Lorenz glance over in the distance. She catches Hilda’s wrist—then, despite her building embarrassment, she intertwines her fingers with Hilda’s. “_I’m_ sorry. You haven’t been making me uncomfortable. I—I didn’t realize you were interested in me.”

“Really?” Hilda continues staring at her. Despite the hurt lingering in her eyes, visible even to Leonie, she doesn’t remove her hand from Leonie’s. In fact, she returns the motion with one of her characteristic vice grips. “I really did think I was being super obvious. I was—” she huffs out a laugh “—worried you thought I was going too fast, so I was trying to take it slow.”

“I just thought you were doing… friend things.” Leonie hides her face with her free hand. Hilda giggles again, and even if it’s at Leonie’s expense, it’s good to hear. “Shit. I’m so sorry—if I had known—” No, she decides, setting her jaw and shaking her head—there’s no use dwelling on what could have been, only what could be going forward. “Let’s start over, okay? I—” a deep breath “—really like you, Hilda, and I would love to go on more dates, double or not.”

“I know,” says Hilda, batting her eyelashes. When Leonie squeezes her hand a little too tight, she drops the act with a laugh. “Okay, okay! I like you too, Leonie, and I think more dates can definitely be arranged.” She teeters back and forth for a moment before adding in an undertone, “I would kiss you, but I think Claude and Lorenz would start clapping or do something equally annoying, so I’m not going to. At least, not here.”

Through the heat in her face, Leonie meets Hilda’s eyes. “Honestly, who cares? Do it anyway.”

“Hm.” Hilda taps her chin in thought. “You know what? Good point.”

And, without further ado, she leaps right into Leonie’s arms, sealing their lips together while Leonie struggles to hold her up without knocking them both over.

(Claude does burst into cheers once he notices what’s happening. Lorenz opts for a no less obnoxious golf clap.)

*

Years from that moment, an exhibition match is held in Sauin Village.

On one side of the cage is Leonie Pinelli, a fighter known far and wide all across Fódlan, but best known by the people of her hometown. She holds numerous titles, and—most important to her—she’s earned a title inherited from her notorious mentor: The Fist Breaker II. She bounces back and forth on the balls of her feet as she waits. Though she’s known for her excitement during matches, the sheer giddiness on her face takes the crowd by surprise.

Facing her is Hilda Valentine Goneril, who’s said to have retired to a life of accessory-making after becoming the youngest bantamweight champion in all of the Leicester Alliance. Her appearance in another fight is nothing but newsworthy. The rumor mill has churned on and on about whether she can hold her own after all this time, but as soon as she steps out in her uniform, it becomes clear that she’s kept up her physical fitness just enough to keep it from becoming a chore.

As the MC announces them, the two size each other up with the secretive smiles of two people sharing an inside joke. Hilda winks. Leonie laughs. For a week, MMA news stations will play that clip of her showing a rare emotion other than fierce competitiveness and determination, but her laugh has no less grit to it than anything else. It’s a challenge in its own right.

They step forth and touch gloves with the tenderness of Victorian lovers. Other fighters might use this as an opportunity to throw a punch while their opponent’s guard is down, and Hilda has indeed been known to do this, but instead, the two knock their fists together with caution and genuine respect.

Then, both smiling, they step back, and with a roar of applause, the match begins.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading!! if you have time to spare, comments & kudos are appreciated <3
> 
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